The Close Encounters of a Blonde Kind Affair
by RoseLight
Summary: Illya yearned for something...different.  Be careful what you wish for.


CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE BLONDE KIND AFFAIR

ACT 1

"Be careful what you wish for..."

Alexander Waverly did not like his agents to have too much leisure time. It created too much opportunity for brooding, or mischief. Better the merry-go-round of missions that blurred the clocks and calendars and contemplations.

Illya Kuryakin watched as his partner headed jauntily down the corridor toward the commissary. It was one of the rare times he envied Napoleon Solo. Did he never feel restless, melancholy, bored? Illya tried to shake off his vague discontent. It had been too long without action.

"Illya, you need some stimulating companionship," Solo observed. "Look down the hall any morning-there's at least a half-dozen sweet young things who would consider you quite a trophy."

Kuryakin shuddered at the characterization. "I'm looking for something...different. You know the word 'evoke' ?"

"Ah, evoke-" Solo quoted Webster, "To bring to mind, to summon, as if by magic, to cause to be felt." So, that's how it is, eh? You want to be evoked. I always suspected that beneath that icy facade beat the flaming heart of a true romantic."

"And lies safely buried..." Illya warned.

"Fear not, your guilty secret is safe with me, Partner."

Kuryakin hesitated before sharing the early morning's episode.

"She was such a petite thing, she was swallowed up in the crowd waiting at the street light. Somehow, a wave went through the crowd that shoved her into traffic. I grabbed at her, yanked her back onto the curb." He modestly left out the pulse-pounding details.

The momentum knocked them together against the traffic pole. She wound her arms around him and the pole, clinging to regain her balance. He found himself nose to nose with the stranger. Her eyes sparkled blue and wide, as if she were constantly astonished by Life; her blond curls were cheerfully frivolous. She untangled herself from him with thanks, in a squeaky sing-songy voice, and then—Dear God-she giggled.

Definitely not his type. Carefree, bubbly. Probably not one serious, intellectual thought under those bouncy blonde curls dancing everywhich way. No, definitely not for him. "Damn tourist, nearly got us both squashed-" Kuryakin grumbled.

"Oh, just my bad influence on you, I'm afraid. We've got no assignment, so you're saving the world one female at a time," Solo explained.

Still, the incident replayed in his mind throughout the day, accompanied by the occasional twinge of regret that he had not copied down the number of her bus.

Act 2 Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered

"It's a great new assignment-we get to have our cake and eat it, too." Solo chortled enthusiastically.

"Quality control inspection in a bakery?" his partner posed hopefully.

"Literalist. All we have to do is make preliminary contact-and get this-we get to go on the Mating-Go-Round!"

"A new THRUSH torture device, no doubt."

Napoleon sighed. "Don't you ever keep up with popular culture? It's a cheesy new game show. They set up singles for dream dates."

"Stop smacking your lips. You volunteered for this one, didn't you?"

Solo tossed back his head. "I already know I'm gorgeous on surveillance cameras. Why not TV cameras? Give all America a chance to-"

"What's the plot?"

"We appear as contestants on the show. Simple format: three eligible bachelors behind a screen, an attractive girl asks us silly questions, we respond wittily and she picks one of us to accompany her-properly chaperoned, of course- on an exotic weekend."

"That's it?"

"Well, there's some minor points of espionage involved," Solo admitted, "but let's keep our priorities straight: Mating-Go-Round." He took in his partner's skeptical face. "Look, it was this or the camel-rustling investigation in Istanbul. And I know how you suffer in the hot climates."

"Ah, how solicitous of you, Napoleon, always thinking of others."

# # # # # #

Solo arrived promptly at his partner's apartment, to accompany him to the studio. "You're wearing that?" he frowned.

"It's what I always wear."

"I know. Black-black-black. Television does broadcast in color now, yknow."

"Yes, Uncle. And I believe the network already has a peacock mascot," Kuryakin gazed pointedly at Solo's resplendent ensemble.

But Solo was having too much fun and ignored him. "Got your lines down?"

"Certainly. I say, 'the Balkans are chilly this time of year', and the third cameraman says-"

"No, your lines. Your pithy pick-up lines and adorable double-entendres. You should be better prepared for national television, " Napoleon scolded.

"I rarely double entendre in public," the blond replied dryly. "However, I have selected several apt quotations from Chekov that should suffice."

Sheesh, Napoleon thought, this will be like taking candy from a babe. "Eh, great. Yeah. Always a showstopper, that Chekov."

One last look in the mirror and they were downstairs hailing a cab. With the legendary Solo luck (Or perhaps the attraction of his elegant outfit) he instantly caught the eye of a passing hack, who slowed down in front of them.

Kuryakin leaned over to pull open the door when out of nowhere a compact blonde body ducked under the arch of his arm throwing him off-balance as she slid into the back seat. Illya teetered backwards on the curb. She tugged on the handle which pulled him forward and he nearly fell in on top of her.

"Sorry, but I'm really, really late!" she begged forgiveness breathlessly as she stole their transportation and rode into the night. Illya was wide-eyed.

"Did you see that?" he demanded of Solo, pointing at the distant taxi.

"Yep, larceny, pure and simple. You can sue. I'm a witness."

"No, the girl, that girl!"

"Yeah, cute. Not your type, though. Whirlwind. And obviously late for someone else," Solo clicked his tongue, "Tardiness being at the top of your Seven Deadly Sins list."

"Tardiness indicates poor organization, disrespect for discipline, lack of consideration for others-" Illya interrupted his own lecture. "No, I mean, that girl from this morning-"

"Your traffic tootsie? Not likely, that out of all the cab-nappers in New York-"

"I know her," Illya insisted grimly. "The same flashing eyes, that irritating squeaky voice, the silly, bouncy blonde curls-"

"For someone you dislike so intensely, you have very detailed memories," Solo teased.

Kuryakin stiffened. "It's my job to observe and recall details."

Solo waved down another taxi.

Kuryakin swallowed the urge to shout, "Follow that cab!"

# # # # #

"You're late, you're late," chanted the assistant director. The stopwatch dangling around her neck by a shoestring ticked as loudly as any bomb. She shooed them down the hall to the green room -"have a nosh, bagels, kiwis-just be ready to swallow and smile when you're introduced."

A petite body came zipping down the hallway , face buried in a clipboard and oblivious to this evening's guests, when she tripped over her own feet, landing into Kuryakin and knocking him against a life-size cardboard embodiment of Grinning Chick Whimsey, host of Mating-Go-Round. Whimsey suffered the worst of the encounter, having been raggedly decapitated.

"Hmf!" The unanticipated blow momentarily knocked the wind out of him (Kuryakin, not cardboard Whimsey). He shook his head to clear it and was certain he recognized his assailant. "Again!"

"Omigosh!" was all she could squeal before she dashed to the nearest door and the agents heard the loud click of tumblers locking it behind her.

"I could swear-" Kuryakin muttered.

"Not on national television, you can't," Solo warned him.

"Daffy, dizzy, dippy, ditzy-"

"Conjugating the word 'Blonde'?" Solo quipped.

"The opposite of everything I find attractive. I like quiet, cultured women; graceful, competent, capable of articulate conversation. And dark," he tossed that in for emphasis," yes, dark hair-serious, straight dark hair, and dark eyes. Glasses, even," he added radically. "And I'm being stalked by this-this- flibbertigibbet!"

"Illya, Illya, I've never seen you so riled up over a woman. That certainly is different." Solo's analysis stopped him short.

"Yes...different..." he repeated, shaken.

Our heroes were directed to sit behind the psychedelic screen with a dentist from Poughkeepsie. Beyond the stage floated disembodied applause from the dark, and Grinning Host Chick Whimsey bounded into the spotlight to introduce the show to 250,000 Americans home on a Saturday night.

Illya Kuryakin squinted into the dark audience, searching for someone...different.

Act 3 "And now for something completely different…"

The dentist snagged the heart of the stringy platinum model and was packing for Honolulu. Solo had finagled himself a consolation prize: dinner with the assistant director, who was not so frazzled now that the cameras whirred off.

As for Illya, he wandered a path around his empty apartment, at loose ends. He usually appreciated the quiet hush of his home, but this early morning, the silence echoed, surrounded him.

He was bored with classic books and classic music and karate work outs and pistol practice and colliding electrons and even the local delivery menus were unappealing. He yearned for something...different.

Illya was prodded to be adventurous: he would make his own food. Something simple, of course. He could manufacture a nuclear warhead with a torn matchbook cover and a pocketful of linty cough drops, but the culinary arts still eluded his grasp.

He had never admitted to Napoleon that following the disastrous suburban soufflé, he had enrolled in an evening cooking class. And, that by the end of the week, his tuition had been refunded. He opened the refrigerator door and surveyed its gleaming empty interior and closed it again. Then he remembered why he had no food.

He was starving and it was all HER fault.

After last night's taping, while Napoleon flirted with the AD, Illya remembered a simple household chore that he'd neglected for awhile. It was late, and the supermarket's aisles blazed white light. The store was nearly empty.

He strolled the aisles listlessly, and list-less, bagging a few staples. He carried the bag high, so he did not see the cart careening around the corner, until it plowed into him.

His bag broke, and the contents spilled all over the aisle. A can of frozen orange juice rolled and caught under her heel and flipped her off-balance. She grabbed at his legs on her way down, pinning him against the glass at the deli counter.

The bouncy blonde, as he had come to think of her, was laughing her squeaky apology as he was struggling to avoid a coleslaw shampoo. He peeled himself from the glass, and sprinted to the nearest exit while she was still on her knees collecting his groceries.

Kuryakin did not want to go out again. He was tired, and heaven only knew where she might be lurking. He'd have to beg from a neighbor. All he needed was a one in five chance that someone was home, and feeling generous. Putting on his most benign expression, he tried the buzzer down the hall.

Act 4 "...you just might get it."

He heard footsteps scurry across the floor, then the sudden "oof!" and a mildly hissed "damn-oww..." and the response to his beckoning slowed, and limped. The occupant cracked the door to observe him, for security's sake, then opened it in welcome.

"A-ha, Inspector, we meet at last. I'll come quietly." She held the back of her hand to her brow, speaking soft, compelling contralto- until she giggled all over herself. The daffy blonde of his dreams wore fuzzy-wuzzy lavender bunny slippers. "If I promise not to fly into your arms and fling you to the floor, will you come in?"

"My grandmother always said one should not make promises one cannot keep," he replied solemnly.

"Wise woman," she agreed, with that bubbly voice he was beginning to find rather charming. "I certainly wouldn't want to insult Grannie," and she began to shut the door in his face.

"No, wait, please-"

She waited.

Illya found himself unaccountably tongue-tied. He managed to stick his foot in the doorway.

She studied the stranger. He was certainly not her type: she was drawn to dark, burly, bearded men, who were given to boisterous laughter and big bear hugs. Still, there was such a thing as destiny...

"I...ah...was hoping to borrow an egg-two eggs," he amended hastily.

"Sure." She turned to her kitchen. He was pale and slender and way too serious. She noticed the strain wrinkling between his eyes. He looked like he needed a three-egg western omelet and a hearty laugh, and she knew she could provide them both. And maybe a bear hug, too. "Anything else you need?"

Sure: Light. Love. Lazy laughter.

"Ah, toast, perhaps?"

"I've got cinnamon raisin or oatmeal."

"Whichever you prefer."

"And..." she prompted.

He cleared his throat. "Ah...wine perhaps? " he suggested tentatively. "Yes, wine would be very nice."

"For breakfast? Isn't it a little early?"

"We could eat the eggs very, very slowly…"

Inconceivably, he caught himself begging for her company. Please, please, don't abandon me to gloomy cello solos and physics manuals alone in the dark. Let me stay within whiff of your sunlit waterlily scent. Please, be Someone Different...

She tilted her head invitingly. "There's a Gilligan's Island marathon on channel 2. Would you like to sing along?"

No! No. Absolutely Not. Never. Stop the Insanity.

"Of course," he said. And the strange thing was, he really meant it.

Finis


End file.
